Bet Me A Lifetime
by Jul3s
Summary: A seemingly harmless accident leaves Don with more load to carry than he thinks he can. Reposted WIP, now on the finishing line.
1. Chapter 1

_**General Disclaimer:** Numb3rs and all its characters belong to people far more talented than I am. And they even make money with it. I don't. This story was written for gratuitous entertainment only and no copyright infringement is intended._

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**A/N:** Alrighty, let's try this again. :-) For those who don't know, this monster was already partly posted about two years ago (until my computer died) and deleted about a year ago (for general edits and because a new computer wasn't anywhere on the horizon). And now, we'll restart this monster and finally bring it to the finish. Longer chapters this time, as a lot is already written and the rest has just to be wrestled into submission. Come along for the ride and enjoy, comments are muchly appreciated.

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**Bet Me A Lifetime**

by Jules

"Come on, Charlie! You're missing all the good ones!"

Charlie Eppes just shook his head at his brother and buried his toes deeper into the warm sand with a content grin. From his vantage point, missing a few spectacular waves was okay. Enjoying the view was far more important to him right now.

He saw Don shrug his shoulders and watched him as he turned around to jog back into the water and duck-dive the first incoming wave. He vanished out of sight, only to reappear moments later, floating back towards the beach on the next incoming wave.

Charlie liked that picture. His brother was back on top. And not only on top of the waves. More than once during the past year, Charlie had thought that Don would never be on top of anything again. But now, in retrospect, on this sunny Saturday afternoon on the beach, those days seemed like a whole lifetime away...

XOXOX

_One year earlier:_

"Remind me again why I agreed to do this?" Don rubbed his hand over his sweaty brow and stared at his brother over the wide array of boxes between them.

"That would be Bruins against Kings."

"Ah, yes." He hefted up another box and deposited it to his right. "Remind me not to bet you for money anymore."

Charlie had the grace to chuckle only slightly. "Stick to baseball, Don."

Don grinned and busied himself once more. It wasn't so bad after all, even though he could imagine more pleasant ways to spend a Saturday afternoon than rummaging through a dusty and cramped basement. Far more pleasant ways, actually. But then, it had been his idea to mention surfing in the first place and it had actually been nice to see Charlie warm to the idea immediately. They hadn't been surfing for years. So long that their boards were actually buried way back in the basement, long forgotten. It would be nice to go. If they ever managed to excavate the surfboards.

"I think I can see one," Charlie exclaimed and clambered onto the remaining pile of boxes.

Don straightened and rubbed his dirty hands on his thighs, watching Charlie as he dug through years of dust and memorabilia.

"The blue one was yours, right?"

"Wait, I'll help you." He stepped up beside Charlie, both slightly stooped due to the low ceiling and helped him pull the wedged in board free. It didn't budge at all in the beginning, but with their combined efforts, it started to move slowly.

"We should've cleared more stuff," Don grunted, applying more force.

"Nah, it's okay." Charlie responded and gave another pull.

The board came free suddenly, too sudden for any of them to compensate the momentum and they both toppled sideways, the board following close behind. For a fleeting moment, Don tried to brace himself for the impact, then his head crashed into the wall and a lightening pain exploded through his skull, dimming everything else around him.

"Don? Oh, god, are you alright?"

Waiting for the pain to ebb to allow that assessment, Don fought to breathe, but Charlie's weight pinning him down made it almost impossible.

"Get off," he gasped, his eyes still closed.

"Sorry. Sorry, I..." Charlie moved, groaning as he did so, and now that Don could do the same, he gingerly touched the side of his head, certain his hand would come away covered in blood. "Ow."

He opened his eyes experimentally, pressing them shut again as the world tilted merrily and his stomach churned. "Don?"

"I'm okay." I hope.

"Lemme see." Fluttering fingers touched his head and he pulled out of Charlie's grasp, swallowing again as another wave of dizziness caused by the movement swept over him. He pulled his legs up and scooted backwards until he could lean against the wall. Fingering the side of his head again, he couldn't detect any suspicious wetness and the initial pain was subsiding already.

"Just a bump," he muttered, blinking his eyes open again, glad to see the world had stopped spinning for now. Charlie's face was only inches away, knitted in worry. Feeling the threatening nausea dissipate, he smiled reassuringly. "You okay?"

"Me?" Charlie's laugh had a hint of hysteria. "Yes, I'm okay."

"Good." He stretched out his hand and let Charlie help him to his feet again, groaning as the rest of his body reported its discomfort. But the dizziness stayed at bay. Just a few bumps and bruises. Not to mention the slightly dented ego.

Charlie reached down to pick up the board, turning it from side to side. "Looks still good, huh?"

"Yep. Now, where's the other one?"

They continued moving boxes, a bit more careful now and by the time the second board was freed and both brought upstairs into the garage for cleaning and waxing, the small accident was almost forgotten.

XOXOX

"So, surfing?" Alan asked after dinner.

He'd found Don and Charlie sweaty and bickering in the garage when he'd returned home and relished their antics while he puttered around in the kitchen. The last months had been rather tense and it was great to see both his sons regaining some sense of ease again.

"Yeah. It's been a while." Don was lounging on the couch, one leg stretched out, his coffee growing cold on the side table.

Alan smiled. "It's great to see you guys doing something together apart from work, you know?"

"Yeah, wait 'til we're at it." Don grinned, then pulled his hand up to rub the side of his head with a slight wince.

"Ah, Charlie's good at surfing, he always was."

"Yeah. S'gonna be fun." Don let his eyes fall shut and pulled his other leg up as well.

Five minutes later, Charlie came bouncing down the stairs, his hair still wet from showering.

"I think you're wearing your brother out already," Alan remarked with a fond smile, nodding his head to the couch. Don lay fast asleep, one arm folded under his head, his features slack.

Charlie mirrored his father's smile, but couldn't suppress looking a bit more closely at his brother as he slid into the armchair adjacent to the couch, the incident in the basement suddenly again very vivid in his mind. But nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary.

Making a mental note to keep an eye out, he busied himself with grading papers.

XOXOX

Mondays and paperwork never seemed to mix well, but this time the air inside the office seemed even thicker than usual.

"Can someone tell me why this heap never seems to reduce, no matter how many files I handle?" Don groused.

Megan rose her head and stared at him over the rims of her glasses from her side of the cubicle. "My, you sure are grumpy today."

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Don managed a small snort. "Sorry."

But she was right, he was. He'd vegged out all Sunday on his couch, sleeping most of the time. Just as he'd vegged out the evening before on Charlie's couch. His father actually had to wake him, asking if he wanted to stay over or drive home. He'd opted for driving home though, but still couldn't remember any of the drive. He'd even had a hard time remembering where he'd parked when he left the house in the morning.

After sleeping as much as he had over the last two days, he should've felt a lot better than he did. Something was off, but aside from the nagging headache that had pestered him all day and the nausea the copious amounts of coffee he'd downed were giving him, he couldn't really put a finger on it.

"Here." Megan had suddenly materialized beside him and deposited a bottle of Aspirin on his desk. "Trust me, we'll all benefit from it."

He threw her a deadly glare, but unscrewed the cap and shook two tablets out.  
They helped.

An hour later, after he'd chewed out one of the secretaries for a minor mishap and almost reduced her to tears, the atmosphere thickened again as now a million set of eyes seemed to watch him. He made a mental note to apologize to her once he felt less testy.

Two hours later, after returning from the restrooms where he and his meager lunch unanimously had parted ways, Don decided to call it a day.

XOXOX

"Donnie. I didn't expect you today," Alan said surprised as he looked up from the blueprints and construction plans spread out on the dining table.

"Hey, Dad." Don forced himself to smile and slowly made his way through the living room, careful not to stumble.

He hadn't really planned to stop by the house today. But after having to stop twice on his way because of dizzy spells, he thought it wise to make a pit stop here. Whatever bug he'd caught, it sure was persistent and if it became any worse, he might as well stay here.

He sank into the nearest chair, glad to be able to close his eyes and stave off the next wave of nausea.

Don heard his father stepping closer. "You alright? You look a little peaked there."

He smiled at the feather-light touch ghosting over his forehead. "A little headache. Think I caught a bug or something."

"How about I make you a cup of tea, huh?"

Don kept his eyes closed and followed his father's steps towards the kitchen, listened to the familiar squeaking of the swing door. It needed some oil. It had always needed some oil, even his mother had complained about that years and years ago. He even remembered oiling it himself, but it still squeaked. Stupid door.

Stupid headache, also. It was killing him, really.

Don tried to open his eyes again, but they wouldn't obey, no matter how hard he tried. He was starting to feel a little spacey, as if he was slowly spinning away. Something definitely was off here.

_Dad?_

XOXOX

Don hadn't mentioned he would come by, but Charlie saw his car parked in the driveway when he came home. Maybe something had come up at work. Or maybe his big brother just wanted to bond a little more.

"Hey," he said as he came through the door, but the smile died on his lips.

He could see Don sitting in the living room, but he looked... odd. "Don?"

His brother gave no indication he'd heard. And something was in the air, a certain tension, as if a bolt of lightening was about to hit the house, even though the sky outside was deep blue and cloudless.

"Don?" He stepped nearer, extending one hand to touch his brother's shoulder, feeling the muscles slightly bunch under his fingers. Don moaned.

"Dad?" Louder, with more urgency. Charlie let his bag slip off his shoulder, crouched down beside Don's chair and searched his face.

"Charlie? I'm in the kitchen."

And suddenly, another moan, louder this time, passed over Don's lips. His eyes fluttered open, unseeing, and in the next instant his body started to convulse.

"DAD!"

Something crashed in the kitchen, but Charlie had his hands full. Literally. His whole world narrowed and everything felt acutely clear as he watched the fully fledged seizure take its course and as he felt the convulsions running through his brother's body.

"Charlie, what..." His father was beside him in an instant and somehow they managed to get Don onto the floor, away from the furniture. Alan tried to wedge himself behind Don, cradling his head and Charlie watched in horror as a trickle of blood started to run down Don's chin.

"Phone, Charlie! Get the phone!"

He patted his pockets for his cell phone, unable to move any further. "He was fine, Dad. He... he was fine."

"What are you talking about?"

Don's face had taken on a bluish hue, but the convulsions were slowing down. "The basement. Saturday." Charlie located his phone, handed it over, his eyes still fixed onto the horrendous sight before him. "H-he hit his head. But he was fine."

Alan muttered something under his breath and punched in 911 with his left, his right hand still cradling Don's head, fingers stroking through his hair. The seizure had finally stopped and Don lay impossible still, his face white and slack.

While his father relayed all the necessary information to the emergency dispatcher, Charlie reached out and gently grasped one of Don's hand with both of his own. It felt cold and lifeless and he started to rub it and closed his eyes.

Maybe, if he concentrated enough, he could wake up from this nightmare.

XOXOX

Some distant part of his mind found all the positive aspects of the current situation. Huntington Memorial was a small, but very renowned hospital, specialized in neurosurgery. The ambulance ride had probably not even taken 5 minutes. The emergency room had almost been deserted, so the doctors could immediately take over the moment Don was wheeled in. All points to their, to Don's, favor.

But there was the other part of his mind, the one that predominantly was a father. The emotional side of him that couldn't simply be switched off, no matter how logical the other part argued.

Alan Eppes had seen a couple of horrible things in his lifetime. A few years back, he'd even witnessed a man having a seizure at the skid row shelter. It had been a shocking experience, but now he found that even that had not been enough to prepare him for what had happened. It was always different when it concerned your own flesh and blood.

Alan couldn't suppress a shudder.

Patching together what little information he could get out of Charlie and what he'd grasped from the EMT's, he knew that the situation was bad, at best. The analytical part of his mind told him that given the odds, they probably were lucky. The paternal part battled between denial and desperation.

And Charlie was wearing a hole in the floor.

"Charlie, you're wearing a hole in the floor," he said and Charlie simply looked up, quirked the corners of his mouth into what probably was supposed to be a smile and wandered on. Fifteen steps to the left, an about-face and fifteen steps to the right. It was maddening. Just like the waiting was.

And the memories began swirling again, of how frail Don had looked in those long moments until the ambulance arrived. Don had never looked this frail before, not even as a newborn.

There just was no way to prepare yourself for the possibility of losing a child, was there?

XOXOX

_The sun was warm on his back and the salty air smelled fresh and pure. It was this moment, always, when the elements surrounded him, that he remembered why he liked it so much._

_It was the combination of peace and challenge, fighting nature and becoming one with it at the same time._

_The waves rolled in languidly, gathering height slowly and he waited for the perfect opportunity._

_And suddenly, the ocean became a green monster, rolling him, over and over again. Swallowing him whole._

XOXOX

Charlie was on his 143rd round--yes, he counted, he was a mathematician after all--when the sliding door opened and a scrub-clad doctor stepped out into the waiting area. His father was on his feet in mere instants, barging forward, but he just couldn't move at all. Moving meant getting closer to the truth and Charlie wasn't at all sure if he could handle the truth.

"We're preparing to take your son up into surgery now, Mr. Eppes."

"W-what," Charlie saw his father swallow, fighting for composure, "h-how is he?"

The doctor smiled a very noncommittal smile, one of the first things he'd probably learned as a resident. "As we'd expected already, the MRI confirmed that he has suffered a subdural hematoma. There's no skull fracture, which at this point is a good thing. He's holding his own and our main concern now is to go in and reduce the pressure on his brain."

Against his own expectations, Charlie was moving after all. He stumbled once, caught himself against the wall and barely made it into the restroom before his stomach started to turn inside out.

XOXOX

The coolness of the tiled wall against his back was starting to creep into his body and Alan felt himself shiver.

"Charlie?" he tried again.

And finally got an answer. "I'm okay."

"I'm not convinced, son."

A strangled sound, half snort, half sniffle, emanated from inside the stall before the toilet finally was flushed. Charlie stepped out, looking positively gray and wobbly, and leaned against the door frame, staring at his own reflection in the mirror across from him.

"There's a surgical waiting room on the second floor," Alan said, monitoring his youngest son with as much compassion as he could without breaking down himself.

Charlie nodded and absently started to pat his pockets, still fixing himself in the mirror with half-lidded eyes. "Did you pack my phone?" he rasped.

Momentarily confused, Alan starting going through his pockets, pulling out a phone. "No, that's mine." He searched further, finally coming up with Charlie's cell phone, which he'd absently stuffed into his jeans pocket before they'd rushed out of the house. Charlie reached out his hand to take it and Alan followed his reflex and held on, their hands clasped around the device.

"This isn't your fault, Charlie." But Charlie's eyes told him a different story and Alan felt another shiver coming up.

"Give me two minutes, okay?" Charlie's hand tensed for a second, before he tugged the phone free and slunk out into the hallway.

XOXOX

It had taken one phone call and roughly 30 minutes of waiting--okay, 32.6 minutes or 1956 seconds, of course he'd counted--until the support system was up and running. His own support system, in the form of Amita. She sat beside him, lending him a shoulder to lean against and a hand to clutch while he watched the clock on the opposite wall tick away the seconds. And his father's support system, Megan and David, who both had appeared only minutes later and now tried to keep Alan occupied with exchanging stories, although they both looked frayed around the edges themselves.

Misery loves company, Charlie thought and clenched his fingers around Amita's hand, smiling faintly as the pressure was returned with just as much force.

And the clock ticked away the seconds unerringly. _5276. 5277. 5278._

"I felt it," he whispered, closing his eyes and opening them immediately again, because the darkness felt intimidating.

Amita's head moved against his shoulder. "What?"

He swallowed, looking back at the clock, trying to find his place again. _5292, 5293_.

"The seizure. Right... before it happened. I... I felt it."

"He's going to be okay, Charlie." She pressed a soft kiss against his cheek and settled back against his shoulder.

_5330. 5331._ "How can you be so sure?" But he got no answer to that particular question.

XOXOX

"I can't help thinking that I must've felt something," Alan said and downed the rest of his surprisingly good coffee. They sure had to have changed their formula, because the last time he'd had coffee here, it tasted awful. Or maybe his taste buds were off due to all the stress. He glanced sideways at Megan, who rubbed her eyes tiredly. "You know, felt something. Gotten him help sooner."

Megan's smile didn't reach her eyes. "You know, he was a bit more irritable than usual when being drowned in paperwork." Alan had to smile at the description, fully able to understand that kind of resentment. "But even if I had known about the accident, I don't think I would've caught on. He does have a temper sometimes, you know."

Alan chuckled with little humor and crushed the paper cup in his hand. "Yeah, I know."

They fell silent again and Alan watched Charlie and Amita, who both seemed to have nodded off, their heads leaning against each other, both of her arms curled around one of his as if she was afraid he might float away if she didn't held on tight. They looked so much like a couple that he, who knew they weren't, almost couldn't believe it. At least he thought he knew.

Another flutter of tension settled in the pit of his stomach and he almost jumped out of his chair, walking over to the trash can to dispose of the empty cup and started pacing. "This is taking too long," he muttered, rubbing his temples.

David, who hadn't said much since he'd joined the waiting, offered a smile. "Maybe no news means good news."

"Yeah, maybe." And then, maybe not.

XOXOX

And finally, after 7818 seconds--according to the wall clock and Charlie's counting, which both had stayed oddly in tune even though he'd almost dozed off--the sliding door opened and two doctors entered the waiting area. 7818 seconds, 130 minutes and 18 seconds, 130.3 minutes and 1303 was a prime and a lucky prime even. Charlie smiled, even before anyone could say anything, hearing Don's voice in his head, ribbing him about how he could do anything with numbers, even finding the odd pattern no one else would care about. As if he sat right beside him, as if they could all just get up now and leave and pretend none of this had ever happened.

Don had come through surgery. He was alive. Guarded prognosis, possible brain damage, uncertain until he'd wake up. Don was in a coma.

The medicalese washed over him, trickled away before he could grasp and comprehend it, just like the seconds had trickled away with unerring certainty. Certainty. Uncertainty. Heisenberg's Uncertainty principle. You couldn't measure an electron without bumping into it in some small way and change its path of travel. He'd bumped into Don, sent him careening into the wall, he'd...

"Charlie? Breathe."

He breathed, held onto Amita's hand, forced bile back down and air in and out, but none of that changed anything.

He stood up when his father stretched out his arm for him, accepted the arm over his shoulders, let himself be lead past the sliding door and down a semi-lit corridor until they reached the small cubicle at the far end, off the left. And he stood by the bed, close enough to see, but too far away to feel. He felt as much as a lifeless shell as Don looked like one, almost hidden under all the equipment and bandages.

The two minutes they were allowed to stay stretched like an eternity and when they finally could leave, Charlie had to force himself not to run. Back down the long corridor, into the waiting area, down to the parking lot. Saying goodbye to Megan, David and Amita, promising to call with any news, accepting both Megan's and Amita's hugs and kisses and then his father's arm back across his shoulders.

Before he could really form a memory of the drive, they were already there. Something had to be wrong with the space-time continuum, the fourth dimension had taken on a life of its own. Home. Back to the beginning. The living room was a mess, furniture disarranged, a forlorn plastic glove and some wrapping paper left behind by the EMT's littering the floor. And the strong presence of his father in his back, his hands on his shoulders, steering him towards the stairs.

"Come on, Charlie. I think we both could use some sleep now. Things will look brighter in the morning."

And Charlie almost laughed at that and turned around, four steps up, and searched his father's face. "Do you really believe that?" he whispered and his voice sounded just as alien as he felt right now.

"No, Charlie," his father said and he suddenly looked so old that it hurt, "but it felt good saying it."

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:** I'm no medic, so I have to say thanks to the great wide plains of the internet, for they enable me to pretend I know what I'm writing about. Any remaining mistakes are mine though, mine alone._

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Charlie woke to birdsong outside of his window and for the fraction of a moment, he enjoyed the quiet of the morning. But the memories were ruthlessly pushing up and the smile died on his lips. He closed his eyes against the sunlight streaming in and turned over onto his back.

What a nightmare. Although, it would feel better if it really were a nightmare. Something he could analyze and file away for future reference. Something he could put past him and forget.

No one ever said life was fair. Or easy.

Charlie burrowed deeper into his blankets, listening to the soft sounds of his father busying himself downstairs in the kitchen. He should get up, really. Take a shower, go downstairs and help with the breakfast preparations.

The fact that his brother was fighting for his life right now didn't mean that his own life had stopped, did it?

It somehow felt wrong, but Charlie did get up after all.

"Hey, Dad," he said twenty minutes later as he sat down at the table, smiling at the array of food covering the surface. They all had their coping mechanisms and his father always had receded to cooking when times were dire.

"Dig in, Charlie," Alan came in from the kitchen, another plate of French toast in his hands. They probably could feed an army with all that.

Charlie poured himself some coffee and fingered a slice of toast onto his plate, watching his father from the corners of his eyes. "Did you call the hospital?"

"Yeah. No change."

Alan got up again, went to fetch milk and the syrup he forgot earlier and sat back down. He looked like he'd aged over night and Charlie suddenly lost any appetite he might have had.

"Dad?"

Their eyes met and Charlie saw all his worries mirrored tenfold and more. How hard this must be for his father, he could only guess, but what he saw in those brown eyes, eyes that usually were fond and vibrant, scared him.

Alan finally looked away and reached out to ruffle Charlie's hair, just like he'd done countless times before, a gesture that never grew old even if it wasn't always appreciated as he was growing older. Charlie held still and let him, closed his eyes and thought back to those days when having the strong hand of his father touch him like that still made him feel as if nothing bad could ever happen.

"Eat up, Charlie. I want to try to talk to the doctors."

Charlie sighed. And ate. The toast was good, actually, but his appetite didn't return.

XOXOX

Dr. Hamilton was a lanky man in his early fifties with a shock of reddish brown hair turning gray at the temples. Charlie remembered him from the night before.

"Mr. Eppes. And Professor Eppes. My daughter is a social science major at CalSci. She loves your Math for non-mathematicians lectures."

They shook hands and Charlie smiled meekly. "Yeah, those always seem to be a favorite."

Dr. Hamilton glanced at his watch. "I have about half an hour before I have to be at a meeting. Why don't we go to my office?"

They walked down the hallway and entered a small room off to the right. Dr. Hamilton rushed in to clear the two visitor chairs, deftly depositing the papers he'd picked up onto his desk which was already filled to overflowing with more folders and stacks of paper.

"Sorry, I never seem to come around to clean up this mess here."

He pulled both chairs out and over to the small side table and went around his desk to get his chair. Charlie looked around the cramped and cluttered office and had to smile. Order and science obviously never inhabited the same universe, no matter at which field you looked.

"Okay," Dr. Hamilton rubbed his hands together and looked at them, "how detailed do you want to do this?"

"Dr. Hamilton," Alan said and leaned forward in his chair, "that's my son in there."

"Okay," Dr. Hamilton nodded, "detailed then."

"And in English, please," Charlie added.

"Alright. First of all, Don is doing as good as he possibly could at this point. His vitals are stable and the EEG shows significant brain activity. He's in there, hanging on."

Alan heaved an audible sigh.

"But, he's still not responding to any kind of stimulus or breathing on his own."

Dr. Hamilton leaned back in his chair and pulled a plastic model of the human brain out of the bookcase behind him, putting it onto the table between them.

"I assume you both know what this is, right?"

They both nodded.

"The brain is surrounded by three thin layers of membranes," Dr. Hamilton cupped his palm over the model to show, "with the so called dura mater being the outermost layer. What happened with Don is that a vein in the space between the dura mater and the next layer, the so called arachnoid mater, ruptured. Blood started to collect there, which caused the pressure inside the brain to rise."

Charlie felt the urgent need to swallow.

"When we performed the surgery last night," Dr. Hamilton continued, "we removed the blood and repaired the blood vessels. That reduced the pressure inside his brain already, but we're also giving him diuretics to control that situation."

He turned the model around slightly.

"Now, it's the location where the bleeding occurred that is a bit tricky. As you can see here, the brain consists of different lobes and the injury was around here."

He pointed to the left side of the model, where the different colored parts met and fingered his own side of the head, about an inch over his ear and a little towards his temple to underline his explanation.

"Which means?" Alan asked, voicing the question Charlie just couldn't bring over his suddenly very numb lips.

"Which means that different parts of his brain could be affected by this. I understand Don is right-handed?"

They both nodded.

"In right-handed people, this part here, the left frontal lobe, controls speech and this part, the left temporal lobe, controls the understanding of written and spoken language. It also incorporates hearing, language and verbal memory. And this part here, the parietal lobe, controls the muscles of his right side."

"So," Charlie croaked, "that means he..." He couldn't continue.

Dr. Hamilton smiled, pushed the model further towards the middle of the table and leaned back in his chair.

"Professor Eppes, unlike mathematics medicine isn't always an exact science, especially neurology. Most of what we do is guesswork, informed guesswork, based on years of research and experience, but guesswork nonetheless. We've done extensive MRI imagery yesterday and again this morning and there are small lesions in all those three parts of his brain, which means that all those functions I pointed out could be affected. But then, there were also small scars indicating prior lesions in other parts of his brain, which tells me your brother tried to test the thickness of his head before and those probably didn't affect him at all."

Alan chuckled a bit and scrubbed his palm over his cheek. "Don used to play baseball."

Dr. Hamilton nodded. "That would explain that."

He stood up and put the brain model back into the bookcase, then turned back around and leaned onto the back of his chair.

"Until Don wakes up and we can test his neurological and motor functions, we can't say anything for certain. But all of this is a possibility. He could have speech problems, trouble finding or understanding words. It could range from problems with certain words up to complete loss of his speech. His hearing could be impaired, in the worst case scenario resulting in complete sensorineural hearing loss. He could have problems remembering faces and names of objects. Yes, he could have muscle weakness in his right side, spasticity even. I'm pretty sure he'll have some form of amnesia, concerning the events leading up to the injury or from the moment he wakes up onward. He might very possibly develop a seizure disorder due to the scarring. But given the right therapy, most of that is reversible or, in case of the seizures, treatable."

"But it's possible that he'll be mentally disabled," Charlie whispered.

"Yes," Dr. Hamilton nodded, swiveled his chair around and sat back down. "It's also possible that he wakes up with a whumping headache and little to no impairment whatsoever."

Alan, who'd remained almost stoically silent up to now, looked up. "Really?"

"A couple of years ago, a construction worker walked into our emergency room after an accident, a three feet piece of rebar impaling him from here," Dr. Hamilton tapped his index finger to the right side of his chin, "to here," he indicated the top of his head. "Gave our nurses and residents quite a scare. And he left the hospital ten days later the same way he'd entered it, walking unassisted on his own legs, with very little lasting effects of that ordeal. Trust me, anything is possible."

"What about the coma?" Charlie asked, feeling faint and just a little bit more sick to his stomach than he really thought he could stand.

"As I said earlier, there's significant brain activity and while I don't want to downplay the severity of the situation, I'd say the prognosis is fairly good. Yes, if we disconnected him from the ventilator at this point, he probably wouldn't breathe on his own. But in most cases of coma after a trauma to the head, it's basically a self-preservation measure of the body. The brain just shuts down everything as far as possible to give the organism time to heal. I've seen quite a few cases like this before and I'm certain that with the right amount of outside stimulus, the chances he'll come out of it will improve."

"Stimulus?" Charlie asked.

"Sit with him, touch him, read him the sports section of the paper. Let him know you are there. Visitation in ICU is usually restricted to ten minutes out of each hour, but in cases like this I'm always willing to extend that because the patient benefits from it. To start off, I'd say 30 minutes every two hours and we'll see how that works."

Alan nodded, rubbing his palms across his thighs. "I'll sit with him."

Dr. Hamilton smiled and stood up, motioning to them to do the same. "Okay. Now let's see how our patient is doing."

XOXOX

They'd shaved his head.

It wasn't really surprising, given the fact that they had to perform brain surgery--cut his head open, Charlie thought with an inward shudder--but he just realized it now, as he sat down by Don's bedside. And wondered how that could have escaped his attention last night, when he'd been in here the first time.

His father had given him the first turn and had excused himself for a moment to take a walk around the hospital grounds. Coming to terms with the situation.

Charlie let his eyes roam over the part of Don's head that wasn't covered by bandages and even though it was a shocking sight, he couldn't help but smile. Don would freak out about it. His brother, whose often disputed vanity had always been a subject of lots of brotherly ribbing, who even dressed up to spend a lazy day on the couch and hardly ever went unshaven, would certainly throw a fit if he could see himself in a mirror now.

But he couldn't and with that, the humor floated away just as fast as it had appeared. Charlie reached out and gently grasped Don's hand, stroking his thumb over his palm. It was warm and dry and unmoving.

"Hey, bro," he whispered. And immediately ran out of words.

His mind was still preoccupied with the different scenarios Dr. Hamilton's words had provoked. He continued his soft stroking and followed the lines on the heart monitor going up and down, watched the numbers beside it change. Tried to ignore the fact that the green line at the bottom measuring Don's respirations was far too regular because a machine breathed for him.

And as his mind started to slow down, he realized that it didn't really matter. Whatever the outcome was going to be, it wouldn't change how he felt for his brother. And he also realized that it had been a long time since he'd last told his brother exactly that. He rose again, the vinyl cushions of the chair squeaking, and bowed down to press his lips against Don's temple, right under the bandage.

"Hey, Don?" He had to swallow. "I love you, you know?"

And he sat back down and the machines kept on beeping, lines continued to snake over the monitor screen and the respirator hissed on, forcing oxygen into his brother's lifeless body. And Charlie cried.

XOXOX

_Somehow, he'd left the ocean behind. But the tranquility had stayed with him, enveloping him like a blanket._

_He felt relaxed, like on a lazy weekend at home in his childhood._

_The scent of freshly cut grass permeating the air._

_The smell of charcoal and steaks wafting in from the back garden, riding on that soft draft that always swayed the kitchen door just a little bit, making it squeak ever so slightly._

_It needed oil. It always did._

XOXOX

Charlie stared at what he'd written onto the chalkboard, a very exotic attempt at the Poincaré conjecture, and decided that this was not even close to what he usually could come up with when he put his head around a problem, nor that it rivaled in any way what Grigori Perelman had already offered as a solution.

Poincaré and all the other Millennium problems hadn't been Charlie's focus for a long time. In fact, he'd left the quest of solving any of them pretty much behind when he'd abandoned P vs. NP. This wasn't so much about solving them, this was more about juggling his neurons and keeping himself on his toes. Proving to himself that if he really invested his energy and knowledge, he might be able to do it.

At the moment though, even mathematics didn't matter a lot to him.

"Hey," said Amita, slowly walking into the room from the hallway, a soft smile on her lips.

Charlie looked at her and continued playing with the piece of chalk in his hands.

"Amita, have you ever worked on something, something that you thought was profound and important and then you looked at it closely, and suddenly it seemed totally trivial? Nonsensical? Unimportant?"

She stepped up to him and leaned against the desk, her shoulder slightly touching his.

"How is Don?"

The focal question. Charlie shrugged his shoulders and released his breath in a big sigh. "Dr. Hamilton says he's improving, but truth to be told, I couldn't tell the difference. It's been 4 days now and...," he let the rest of the sentence trail off.

"This is pretty hard, I know."

And Charlie wondered if she really knew. If someone really could know and understand unless you were in this situation, unless you got up every day to face the uncertainty, forced to continue with your daily life because all you really could do was stand at the sidelines and watch life have its way with someone you loved. And pondered all the possible outcomes, relentlessly, each day anew, because reality was there, right in your face and you just couldn't ignore it.

"I was just heading out for lunch," she said.

"I... I have an appointment with a student in half an hour," Charlie said and unfolded his legs from under him, slowly sliding off the desk to stand beside her. "And afterwards, I'm off to the hospital."

"Okay," Amita said and turned towards him, her eyes searching his. "You know where to find me, right?"

And he felt the compassion, the will and longing to understand, and he had to smile. "Yes, I know. And thank you."

And Amita left and Charlie stepped up to the chalkboard and wiped Poincaré away. He had no place in his life right now.

XOXOX

"Professor Eppes," Dr. Hamilton smiled as he looked up from his paperwork and leaned back in his chair.

"Please," Charlie said and pushed himself off the door frame, "call me Charlie."

"Alright, Charlie." Dr. Hamilton got up, stretched once and walked over. "I'm Phil. And I look at you and see a question in your face."

Charlie chuckled a bit at that. He really liked Dr. Hamilton and his straightforward and uncomplicated manner.

"Actually, yes, I have." He walked further into the small office and leaned back against one of the chairs. He would have sat down, but the seats were covered in paper and file folders. "I was wondering if you could explain the possibilities of Don's situation to me."

"You mean, what happens in case he doesn't wake up?"

"Yes."

"Okay," Phil Hamilton perched himself onto the edge of the desk, "let's do this bluntly. Door No. 1, he dies. Which is the least desirable solution and also the one with the smallest probability at this point, but you wanted to know. Door No. 2, he remains in a coma, which is only slightly more desirable."

Charlie swallowed and nodded.

"Then there is door No. 3, the so called persistent vegetative state. Think Terry Schiavo. Awake but not aware. He'd have about a 50 chance to come out of that within the first 6 months. He might also proceed to door No. 4, which is the minimally conscious state. He might react to voices, might press your hand back, he might utter words out of his own volition. He might even be able to feel, neuroscience isn't quite that far to say this with certainty yet."

"Okay." Charlie regretted a bit that he'd asked, but it did feel better to have a bigger picture.

"And then," Hamilton leaned back and fished a long strip of paper off his blotter, "we have this, which is Don's latest EEG reading and when I look at that, I feel tempted to say that your brother is only a couple of steps away before he can rattle the knob of door No. 5. Consciousness. He's busily working on his comeback, it seems."

He spread the paper strip between his outstretched hands and Charlie looked at the different zig-zagging lines that snaked over the paper.

"I'm not going to lure you into the illusion that Don will simply open his eyes in a couple of days and be back to his old self." Phil Hamilton looked at him over the paper. "That only happens in bad movies. He will go through all the different states of awareness, all those vegetative states I described earlier and that process could take up any time frame from a couple of hours to a week or two. But given the rate he's been improving up to now, I'm leaning more towards days."

He turned the EEG reading around and looked at it for a moment before he folded it back together and flipped it back onto his desk. "I've been in to check on him earlier and his reflexes are already coming back and he started to breathe a little on his own as well. We've adjusted the ventilator, so it only breathes for him when he doesn't."

Charlie let the words sink in and a distinct sense of relief began to settle into the pit of his stomach. "Thank you, Phil," he whispered and smiled.

"Nothing to thank for. Does Don like music?"

"Yeah, he does."

"Bring some CD's by. Something he likes to listen to. We have a small CD radio here and this way, your father doesn't need to talk himself hoarse."

Charlie thought about his father, who was sitting by Don right now, just like he'd been sitting there for the last 4 days. Whenever he could. Whenever he was allowed to. Reading the newspaper aloud, talking, telling stories. Always keeping contact with Don, a hand on his arm, sometimes on his cheek or forehead.

Making sure that the love he felt was always tangible.

"Yeah," he said, "I think that's a great idea."

XOXOX

Meticulous, Charlie thought and smiled. Yeah, meticulous was a very fitting description. He drew in a deep breath, taking in the very distinct smell of the air around him and closed his eyes. He'd never before realized how deeply the sense of smell and emotions were connected.

Charlie hadn't been to Don's apartment for a long, long time. And Don didn't spend that much time here either, it often seemed. This here was a place to sleep, a place to be alone if he needed to, but it wasn't a home in the true sense of the word. Home still was the old Craftsman house, the family home. Charlie's house. And yet, this place bore the imprint of Don, so clearly that he could smell his brother's presence here.

He walked through the rooms slowly, pausing here and there to look closely, to touch and to wonder.

A rinsed and upended mug on the drainer in the kitchen, the coffee jar with a spoon balanced on top beside it, the kettle a little further to the left. Everything set out and ready to be used.

The alphabetized CD rack in the living-room. The book shelf, with paperbacks and hardcover books neatly arranged so they all fit in, the spines aligned to form a straight line. Everything sorted by interest.

The closet in the bedroom, with his suits hanging behind the first door, the ties arranged on the rod inside the door, sorted by color.

All items of daily use were laid out in a way that made it possible to use them with the least amount of effort. Don's meticulousness sprang at him, wherever he looked. But it wasn't obsessive-compulsive, there were other items of lesser importance lying around. Magazines covering the coffee table. One sleeve of a shirt hanging over the top of the hamper. A still unpacked box under the bedroom window, one flap bent open.

Charlie sank onto the edge of Don's bed with a smile, because Don's meticulousness reminded him of how they were different and yet akin. His living and work spaces weren't overly tidy, not the way Don's were. But he put a lot importance into the correctness of his work, he needed the order of it, needed meticulously compiled results, needed structure.

The mirror image was slightly askew, but it was a mirror image after all.

Charlie's eyes strayed over the furniture, over the small bookshelf by the dresser and he suddenly recognized something that immediately caught his interest. He leaned over, pulled the wooden box from the topmost shelf and set it down beside him onto the bed.

Don's treasure chest. A wave of memories washed over him and his smile widened.

Don's treasure chest was an old cigar box, marred by the years, the brass hinge and clasp slightly corroded. When it entered Don's possession at the age of 9, it had become the container for those items he deemed especially valuable at that age. His baseball cards, snail-shells or funny looking stones, later photos and letters. And Charlie could see himself as if it were yesterday, sitting cross-legged in front of Don's bed and slowly working his way through the contents of the box, because this treasure chest had always had an almost magic appeal on him. He couldn't remember anymore how often Don had caught him red-handed, but he could remember how Don had always scolded him and what little effect it had had on him. He'd always gone back to take a look after a while again.

When Don was around 16, Charlie had even found a small stack of marijuana in there, but he'd never told that to anyone.

And Charlie wondered what now, as an adult, would be of so much importance to Don that he kept it inside this treasure chest. He reached out slowly and opened it. A seashell was lying on top, followed by a number of different sized envelopes. He flipped through them and an awful trepidation started to build inside his chest. Each envelope was addressed to someone, the names written out in Don's neat handwriting. Dad. Charlie. Terry Lake. Kim Hall. Will. DNR. The next envelope was slightly bigger than the others and had a return address embossed into its upper left corner.

Wilbert and Sons Funeral Home.

Realization crashed into him and took his breath away.

He'd heard of this, had talked about this with Terry years ago when she still lived in Los Angeles. The fact that some law enforcement people put their affairs in order, just in case something happened to them on the job. That they made funeral arrangements and wrote their will and letters to loved ones, took matters in their own hands to make it easier for the family.

His hands trembled as he went back, traced his name on the second envelope. Pulled it out and then, because he needed to, opened it. He unfolded the single sheet and stared at the words.

_Charlie,_

_you are holding this in your hands, so I assume that I've encountered that one situation I couldn't win._

_I really hope that none of the following is news to you and that at some point in the past I've told you this in person. If not, I hope you can forgive me and that knowing it now will make things a bit easier for you._

_I'm proud of you, Charlie. You are a very special person and the best brother I could have wished for. And I love you, I always have and I always will, no __matter where I am. It may not always have seemed so, I know that, but it's the truth.  
__  
Stay who you are, buddy, okay? And be good._

_Don_

His tears were flowing freely now and Charlie let them as he folded the paper again and put it back into the envelope. He let the letter fall back into the box and flipped once again through the pile. He had no right to read the others, but he had a pretty good idea of their content now.

Then he reached the last one again. DNR. He didn't know anybody with those initials and curiosity started to toy at him. And then, another association with those letters sprang to the fore and an iron band suddenly constricted his chest.

_No, Don. Tell me you didn't..._

He grabbed the envelope, tore it open and pulled the sheet out. And Don had, in dark blue ballpen on pale yellow paper, meticulously scripted:

_I request that in the event my heart and breathing should stop, no person shall attempt to resuscitate me._

_This order is effective until it is revoked by me._

_Being of sound mind, I voluntarily execute this order, and I understand its full import._

_Don Eppes_

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

The atmosphere inside the small office was bordering on explosive. Alan watched Charlie clutch the paper in his hand, watched his torment being rebutted by Phil Hamilton's quiet, but intense words. And he felt impossibly drained.

"It's not important, legally speaking," Hamilton said.

Charlie's hand trembled even more and Alan reached out to wrap his fingers around his wrist, calmly, paternal. And Charlie looked at him and Alan almost couldn't stand the storm he saw brewing in his younger son's eyes, but he forced himself to return the glare, for both of their sakes.

"This," whispered Charlie and his voice trembled just like his hand did as he turned his stare at the doctor, "is everything. This is important."

Phil Hamilton leaned back and folded his hands behind his head, his eyes closed as if to gather his thoughts.

"Okay. Charlie, Alan. Two things. Number one, legally speaking, this piece of paper is worthless. The state of California requires that do-not-resuscitate orders are printed on a specially issued form and are dated and cross-signed by a physician. This is neither. It's invalid and wouldn't hold in front of any court statewide."

He stood up, went over to a small cabinet behind his desk and returned with a bottle of water and three glasses. Alan watched him as he filled all three glasses and pushed one in front of each of them. Charlie didn't even dignify it with a look, still silently trembling like a volcano on the brink of eruption, but Alan was grateful to wet his parched throat.

"Number two," Hamilton continued after he'd sat back down and taken a sip of water himself, "medically speaking, Don never went into cardiac arrest, his heart has been beating strong the entire time. He never went into respiratory arrest either, he didn't resume breathing after brain surgery, after we'd put him under with an enormous amount of sedatives and invaded his brain. That's different. The DNR order doesn't apply here. You as his next of kin gave your assent to this procedure and I'm sure that if Don had been able to, he would have done the same. And that coma was rather a result of the surgery than of the original injury."

He paused for a moment before he continued. "And he's coming out of that already and is almost breathing on his own again. We helped him along with assisting his breathing. But never, at no point, did we keep him alive. That's my take."

Charlie stared towards the window, rubbing absently at the side of his face. His trembling had died down some.

"But why?" He turned back to look at the older men, fingered the edge of the page that now lay in the center of the table. "Why would Don do that without telling us? Dad?"

Alan could only shrug his shoulders. "I mean, I knew about the box..."

"You did?" Charlie's eyes widened in surprise.

"Yes," Alan said haltingly, "I knew about its existence, I knew where to find it and I knew approximately what to expect inside."

"But you never said anything?" Alan winced at the hint of betrayal in Charlie's voice.

"Charlie, what was I supposed to say? 'Oh, and by the way, just in case you were wondering, your brother has made all the preparations for his possible untimely demise already, just so we don't have to worry when it happens?'"

"Well, something at least..."

Dr. Hamilton cleared his throat. "Don is an organ donor, right?"

"Yes," Charlie said and pulled both his hands closer to bury his face in them, the day and all the events obviously beginning to wear him down. "We all are."

"Admirable," Hamilton said with a smile. "But what I really wanted to point out is that you all know that about each other. You all know that the other is an organ donor, because you'll have to take care of things if something happens. Now, don't you think that Don would've talked with you about this if he'd meant it seriously?"

It made sense, Alan had to agree. At least, he hoped that Don would. That he knew his son good enough to be certain of this.

Hamilton gently pulled the sheet of paper from under Charlie's elbow and folded it back together. "This here shows that Don has thought about it. That he has maybe entertained the thought of setting up a DNR order. I'm pretty sure that if he went this far, he'd have informed himself thoroughly about the legal aspects, so he knew that this wasn't legally binding."

He passed it over to Charlie, who took the folded paper hesitantly, turned it around a couple of times.

"Maybe this was a trial run," Hamilton said, "to see how it felt. Facing his own mortality and all that came with it. And maybe this is something more, maybe this is Don hinting which way to decide when it came to that."

Alan reached out and gently squeezed Charlie's shoulder, but the young man stayed motionless. "Charlie?" he probed.

"I... I... Dad?" Charlie looked up into Alan's eyes and Alan's heart broke just a little bit at all the pain he saw there.

If he'd found the words to ease Charlie's sorrow, he would have said them. But he couldn't.

XOXOX

Visiting hours were long over. But Dr. Hamilton had taken pity on Charlie, seeing how obviously shaken he still was, so he'd let him stay a little longer. Charlie couldn't say if he was particularly happy about that, because he really didn't know if he wanted to be here or not. But he was here, at Don's bedside, and it felt... okay. He sat in one of the chairs, halfway between the bed and the window and watched Don lying in twilight sleep. If the doctors were to be believed, Don was slowly but surely waking up. Soon, Dr. Hamilton predicted, he would start moving, maybe open his eyes.

To Charlie, it felt like a lifetime since this ordeal had begun, when in fact it had only been a couple of days. It felt like months since he'd seen Don laugh, since he'd been able to talk to his brother and have him answer. It felt so long that he sometimes almost couldn't remember how Don had looked like before surgery, before they had to shave his head and that thought scared Charlie.

Talking to Don was what Charlie had tried countless times over the last few days, but he always felt extremely uncomfortable while doing that, which made him feel a little bit silly, but he just couldn't shake it. It was worse when someone else was in the room, but even when he was alone, the words just wouldn't leave his mouth. For that reason, amongst others, having music play in the background was a good thing.

Outside, the sun was slowly setting and inside, the small CD radio on the windowsill was still on its first CD. Charlie had set it to random play and after its first course through the ten songs, it now picked them out after a certain algorithm. He could have analyzed that one, it wasn't really hard, but Charlie didn't want to. Because during the last half hour, one song had been played already 3 times and together with the dusk outside and the dim lighting in here and his tumbling thoughts, it created an almost mystical atmosphere.

This wasn't Charlie's kind of music, he didn't even know if this was Don's favorite kind of music. Don's fairly large CD collection wasn't sorted by preference, it was alphabetized and he'd just grabbed into it blindly before he'd left the apartment. 80's rock. He checked the case again. Okay, early 90's rock. But it touched something in him, this song about hope and despair, about hanging on and believing in life. It fit.

Charlie reached out and lay his hand onto Don's still arm, just below the crook of his elbow.

"Do you have a light in your life, Don?" Charlie whispered. "That one thing that's always worth fighting for? One thing that you can think of when you're really down and it pulls you through?"

Of course, Don didn't answer and Charlie thought that his voice sounded extremely strange amidst the soft sounds of medical paraphernalia that surrounded them. He sighed and fell silent again and his thoughts strayed back to revisit the revelations of the day and all the implications they carried. His thumb began a soft stroking motion on Don's arm.

"I hope you do, brother. I really hope you do."

XOXOX

_There was an urge, something, he couldn't quite pinpoint it. As if he needed to go somewhere, only he couldn't remember where that was supposed to be. An important date he had forgotten._

_And there were memories. Memories, over and over again._

_The cold December air drying the sweat off their bodies and taking the stink of cold cigarettes and stale beer away._

_Terry had wanted to go, all the way up to New York. Just for a concert. And he'd gone with her, because she meant something to him. And they'd stood there, side by side in a crowded club and had listened and she'd leaned against him and it wasn't even his taste in music, but he liked it, there was something special about it, something special about the atmosphere and the night._

_And then they were walking back to the car, in the darkness of the city, a light midnight rain coming down on them and he'd been glad that he wasn't alone. That he was with someone who meant something to him._

_More memories were rippling under the surface. And he knew he had to go somewhere._

_If he just could remember where.  
_

XOXOX

Charlie tossed and turned the entire night, his thoughts still swirling in his mind and once he had to get up in the morning, he phoned CalSci and asked for his scheduled lectures to be covered by someone else. He just couldn't free his mind enough to deliver the teaching his students deserved.

He'd accompanied his father to the hospital and now stood at the side of Don's bed, slightly slumped against the rails. Alan was sitting on the other side, browsing through the sports section of this mornings paper.

"Donnie, I think you missed a pretty good game. Looks like the Lakers are catching their second wind."

Charlie contemplated Don's hands. Strong hands, with long fingers. Fingers that held and fired a gun. Fingers that could almost dance over their piano's keyboard, something Don had done more often lately, after such a long time of not playing. Fingers that used to tickle him when they were little, that always found the right spots no matter how much he'd squirmed.

He gently turned the nearest hand around and traced his fingertips over Don's palm. In the background, his father continued reciting the basketball results and suddenly, the heart monitor's rhythm changed, sped up for a couple of beats and slowed down again.

Hmm. Charlie looked up and concentrated on the monitor while he again circled a featherlight fingertip over Don's palm.

_Beep-beep-beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

A grin began to tug at the corners of his mouth. "Hey, Don. I didn't know you were ticklish."

Alan looked up, at Don, over at Charlie, a crease of slight confusion marring his forehead. And Charlie grinned at his father and did it again.

_Beep-beep-beep-beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

Alan's expression changed into a mixture of incredulity and delight and he started to chuckle, the newspaper forgotten. "Charlie, stop teasing your brother."

"Hehe." Charlie splayed both his hands over Don's and rubbed it between his hands. "Sorry, bro." But there was something starting to bubble inside of him and he couldn't stop grinning.

"Who's teasing?" Dr. Hamilton asked from the door.

"Come in, come in." Alan waved his hand and Dr. Hamilton stepped nearer as Charlie repeated the little play, tickling Don's hand and sending his heart rate up. And even Hamilton grinned.

"Alright," he said. "Let me check a couple of things out here."

Charlie stepped back and made room for the doctor, watching Dr. Hamilton as he perched on the side of the bed, checking Don's reflexes, shining his penlight into his eyes and studied the different readings on the monitors.

"Looking good," he finally said. "Really good."

He looked over to Alan and Charlie and nodded once. "Visit limitations are off. Bring his friends, his coworkers, anybody. Take turns and make sure he sees a familiar face when he wakes up. I'm going to order a few more tests, but I'd say it won't take long now."

Alan nodded and pulled Charlie against his shoulder. "We will."

"And Don?" Dr. Hamilton lay a hand onto Don's forearm. "I feel your pain. I have a sneaky little brother like Charlie here myself."

"Traitor," Charlie muttered. But his grin never faltered, lighting up his face.

XOXOX

_Mikey Bicks was pitching. Mikey, who never could throw you a sound ball if his life depended on it. For Mikey, all that counted was competition and walking away as the winner. Don could understand that, he wasn't so different. But as a counterpart, Mikey was the worst you could wish for._

_Because Don wanted to walk away as a winner just as much as Mikey wanted. Don not only wanted to be good, he wanted to be the best. He often downplayed his ambitions, at 12 there were other things in his life that were important. But sometimes, he could envision himself doing this for a living. And being the best out there._

_Mikey's father was a CEO of some successful technological company and spurred Mikey on. Every Sunday, like clockwork. They stood at the side, Mikey's father, his mother, the two little twin sisters with their twin pigtails, all cheering for Mikey._

_Don's family cheered for him, too. His father was standing just a little bit further down towards the small crooked bleacher that adorned their Little League field, shouting encouragements and smiling at him. The bleacher was going to be torn down and rebuilt over the winter, thanks to his father's efforts. He was dedicated. But once in a while when Don risked a glance, he saw his father being occupied with something else. Charlie, most of the time. Who was an impossible 7 and constantly had questions he needed answers for, answers that Don sometimes thought Charlie should know on his own. He was the genius in the family after all._

_But they were there, his mother even, and they cheered while Mikey played him. Because Mikey, being a full year older than Don and witty, knew that in a __few moments the sun would sink down further past the tree tops, shining low through the gap between the tree line and the locker room building. Effectively blinding him on his spot in the batter's box. They'd played that little game inside the game often by now, also almost like clockwork. So far, they'd drawn a tie. Next year, Mikey was moving up to the Juniors and Don would have to find himself a new adversary._

_Don started to blink as the first sunray tickled his corneas. Not much longer now._

_He dared a sideway glance and saw Charlie smiling at him in the distance, full of hero worship pride and he felt himself smile back. Being a big brother was nice, most of the time. And Mikey's arm flew back._

_He watched the ball coming and swung and knew that this was it. His arm muscles tensed and he could feel the vibrations all through his body as the ball made a sound contact with his bat and flew away, high, higher. He didn't need to run._

_The cheers around him rose in intensity and Don smiled, making out Charlie's piping voice calling his name and his father's voice and he jogged slowly over the bases. Home run. His third and the season had just started._

_He rounded the diamond, accepting high fives from his fellow players and as he passed the second base and looked over to his family, his father was smiling broadly, nodding at him full of pride. Charlie was kneeling by his father's feet, inspecting something on the ground, his attention fully grasped by whatever he'd found there, his brother's home run already forgotten.  
_

XOXOX

Alan looked up from his book at the small sound from the bed. He saw Don's left hand twitch and rose from the chair to step nearer.

"Donnie?"

Don's head moved a fraction on the pillow and his brow seemed to furrow for a small moment.

"Donnie?" Alan tried again and lay his hand on Don's forearm. It stayed still under his touch. He sighed a bit and rubbed his palm over Don's arm, grasping the unmoving fingers and rubbing his thumb over the knuckles.

"You're in there, huh? Just taking your time, like Dr. Hamilton said."

Alan looked at his oldest son closely. Don was pale, his shaved head and the bandage on one side only accentuating that detail. But they had taken him off the ventilator earlier that day and now, with only two tubes invading his nostrils, he looked already a little more like the son Alan remembered and loved and not so much anymore like something out of a horror movie. And he didn't look so frail anymore which, as Alan suspected, was also a bit due to his imagination. Things were improving, Don was improving, he wasn't so close to death's door anymore and Alan's focus had shifted from not fearing anymore if he'd ever wake up but wondering when.

He took his time, Dr. Hamilton had said when he'd checked in earlier, full of his usual enthusiasm. It wasn't unusual, it always took some time for coma patients to find their way out of the darkness and Don's increasing movements, as little as they were, were a very good sign in the right direction. Coma patients didn't just open their eyes and were back among the living.

As comforting as that thought was, it also scared Alan. Because it left the uncertainty behind, it didn't assure that once Don did wake up, he was going to be the same person as before. Too many possibilities. And too many insecurities and too little data to come to a conclusion. As hard as it was, they had to wait for Don to rejoin them.

Alan sighed again and pulled the chair a little closer, sinking back down. His hand stayed firmly around Don's, his thumb drawing a soft, steady circle.

"I'm ready, son. Just waiting for you, okay?"

XOXOX

Charlie felt wired. Strained almost up to his breaking point. He couldn't remember a time he'd ever been so... so nervous. Not even before exams or when he defended his thesis. The waiting was catching up with him and he was very much willing to tell time to speed up a little already, even though he knew time wouldn't and couldn't.

He'd bounced around all day, from Don's room down to the cafeteria, back up to Don's room. He'd stayed a few moments, watching Don as he lay there, so close to waking up and yet not waking up just now. And he had to leave again, had to be somewhere else. Went downstairs and had another coffee he probably shouldn't have because it certainly did nothing to calm his nerves.

Charlie envied his father, because he could stay so calm.

"Charlie!" Megan Reeves said with a smile as she approached the table and Charlie nearly jumped out of his chair to greet her. "David said you'd called."

She slid into the seat across from him, folded her arms on the tabletop and smiled. Charlie smiled tentatively back and continued shredding his paper napkin.

"How are you holding up, Charlie?"

"Barely," he said and choked on a laugh, looking away.

Megan nodded. "I can only try to imagine how you feel. And how hard this waiting must be. But Don is improving."

"Yeah."

"He's a tough guy, you know that."

"Yeah, I know," Charlie propped his head onto his arm, his fingers raking through his curls, "it's just that... the doctors don't know yet if... you know..."

Megan fingers closed over his, squeezing gently. "Don is not alone in this. And you aren't either. Whatever the situation will be, there will be a way out of it."

Charlie nodded a couple of times and turned his hand around to grasp Megan's.

"Have a little faith in your brother," she said and smiled. Charlie could see the strained lines in her features, could imagine her own stress and worries hiding behind the professional facade.

"Don's one of the strongest persons I know. Pigheaded at times, I give you that," they both had to smile, "but he's strong. And we're here to make him stronger, right?"

"Yeah." Charlie released a long breath, feeling some of his tension leave his body. "Let's go upstairs, huh?"

XOXOX

_The sun had gone down further, elongating the shadows and a cool breeze had come with the encroaching sunset, tousling his hair and dancing over the bare skin of his forearms. Sixth inning, a slow game. They wouldn't get through before it was dark if things didn't speed up soon._

_Don scuffed the dirt under him with his left foot and wriggled his fingers inside his glove. Mikey's turn again, this time at the bat. And as good a pitcher as Mikey was, as bad a batter he was. His balls always went too low and were easy to catch. Cosmic justice, Don thought with a smile. No one could excel in everything he did. But this was where his advantage lay. He was the better all-round player, almost equally good in the field and at the bat. He even wasn't half a bad pitcher, his coach thought. Mikey was just an exceptionally good pitcher, but his bigger bulk--he towered almost four inches over Don and __packed a lot more weight--prevented him from being fast enough._

_Another chance for Don and this one, he really looked forward to._

_Mikey struck out the second time and Don's hopes sank a little. Would Mikey bow out? You never knew with him, maybe he'd rather go home early and spare himself the indignity of being caught. No, third time was the charm._

_A good ball, for Mikey's standards at least. Don wasn't far enough out to catch it, so he stayed near the second base, waiting for the pass. He saw the ball flying through the air towards him and that feeling began to build in his chest. This could be it again. He risked a quick glance and Mikey had gone crazy and passed first base. Stupid. He would never make it to second base in time, he'd get tagged out for sure._

_Don's arm went up, catching the ball without much effort in his glove and he turned around and 140 pounds crashed into him running, throwing him to the ground._

XOXOX

And suddenly Don remembered. The jarring impact against his side, his shoulder, the extreme force that hurled him to the side and he couldn't catch his balance in time and the ground rushed up to meet him and he felt his head bounce and his shoulder crumble. And then everything became dark grey and muddled, a slow eddy turning around in his head and there were voices above him, distorted, fading in and out of focus and he felt like he was going to throw up. And there were hands on his body, turning him, hurting him and he remembered that he cried out as the pain suddenly spiked and then he was gone.

And the next two months, he was forced to watch from the sidelines when he decided to come to watch at all while his broken collarbone mended and the aftereffects of the concussion slowly receded. It took almost two weeks before the ringing in his ears stopped. And his coach had scribbled 'injured' behind his listing on his clipboard. _Don Eppes, 2B, injured_. And Mikey grinned at him whenever they met.

And Don remembered how he'd woken up in the hospital, how everything was so slow at first, creeping into focus. And how he could feel his heartbeat everywhere, in his head and his shoulder and his bruised chest and hip. And he remembered the hand that had been there, the warm and strong fingers belonging to his father. The hand that had held his own, that had rubbed over his knuckles like they so often had before and that he'd recognized them immediately, he probably always would, they kept him safe and he'd swallowed and...

XOXOX

"Dad?"

At first, Alan thought he'd imagined that sound, that his hearing had played tricks on him. Which wouldn't have been the first time. He looked up and even before his eyes reached Don's face, his hand moved feebly in his grasp and Alan's heart jumped in his chest.

He sat up quickly, the book on his lap sliding to the ground with a thump and his eyes fixed onto Don's face, noted the soft movements in the muscles around Don's eyes.

"Donnie?" he whispered, his chest suddenly tight.

Don's hand moved again, feeble in his and his eyelids fluttered. It was slow, impossibly slow, but finally, they lifted and revealed sluggish brown eyes.

Alan tightened his fingers around Don's hand and reached up with his other hand to gently cup his son's cheek. He searched Don's eyes, glazed and unfocused, but he saw recognition, awareness and Alan felt himself starting to grin.

"Donnie." Not a question this time.

Don blinked once and swallowed, his face contorting slightly at the pain that movement obviously caused.

"Dad?" he croaked. "M'head hur's."

_TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

Charlie and Megan left the elevator and Charlie immediately zoomed in on his father, who was standing out in the hallway by Don's room, leaning against the wall with his face turned down.

Charlie's hand flew out to grasp Megan's sleeve and he felt himself rush down the hall before he could really process any thoughts.

"Dad, is he... did he...?"

Alan looked up and Charlie saw tears in his father's eyes and his stomach opened to reveal a bottomless pit that threatened to swallow him.

"He woke up, Charlie."

The words sank in slowly and suddenly... Charlie had thought that once this moment came around, once the possibility became a certain event, he'd be bouncing off the walls in joy. But his body had other ideas and he sank against the wall beside his father, his knees suddenly weak, his head swimming.

Megan's voice sounded very far away. "Charlie?"

"I'm okay."

He doubted that, he really did, because he felt faint and very much like passing out. Hands grabbed his shoulders from both sides and he was dragged over to the opposite side of the hallway, the edge of a chair meeting the back of his legs and he sank down gratefully and let his father's hand guide his head down between his knees.

"Deep breaths, Charlie. Come on."

Charlie did as he was told and it didn't take long for the encroaching darkness to recede and his stomach to quiet down. Megan's hand gently rubbed his arm and he looked up and met her eyes.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"It's okay, Charlie. That's a normal reaction."

"You look okay though."

Megan gave a small, quiet laugh and slid into the seat beside him. "I'm a woman."

"And that explains that?" Alan asked with a hint of surprise.

Charlie chuckled and leaned against his father's shoulder, closing his eyes once more as Alan extended his arm behind him and rubbed his back. "Ah, Dad."

"I know." Alan heaved a big sigh and leaned back in his chair. "The doctors have been in for 10, 15 minutes now. Can't be much longer."

"How... I mean, was he...?" Charlie couldn't find the words to express himself.

"He was pretty much out of it, Charlie. I expected as much. But...," Alan looked over. "He recognized me."

Charlie closed his eyes and smiled. God, it felt weird. He felt weird. As if his body was finally catching up and now smashed him against the wall. He could probably fall asleep sitting right here.

"There he is."

Charlie's eyes flew open as his father practically jumped out of his seat to approach Dr. Hamilton. The doctor closed the door to Don's room behind him with a smile and ushered Alan back to the small row of chairs to sit down again. After greeting Megan with a firm handshake, he hunkered down in front of them.

"Alright. Don is lucid, albeit still a little fuzzy on the where's and why's. He has a gap in his memory leading up to his seizure, to what extend I can't tell yet. But he's awake. He knows who he is, he knows his father, knows he has a younger brother and he knows he's an FBI agent."

They all smiled with distinct relief. Phil Hamilton looked at them for a moment before he continued.

"He does have a motor weakness in his right side and his speech is slurred, which are both caused by the surgery. Given the right therapy, I'm sure he should be able to recover from that, it's a common side effect. Other than that, I can't tell right now. We have a heap of tests we will perform over the next couple of days to ascertain if and what kind of impairment might be there, but for the rest of today, I guess we better let him get accustomed to the world again."

He patted Charlie's knee and straightened up again. "Don't expect too much yet, he's still tired and I prescribed him something for that headache he has."

Hamilton smiled at them and turned to leave. Charlie wearily pulled himself up and met his father's relieved eyes. Megan touched his arm and looked at him, her features less tense than they'd been before.

"I'll wait out here, okay?"

XOXOX

Scrambled eggs and bubble wrap. Yeah, that had to be it.

While he was out, someone must have cracked his head open, scrambled his brains, wrapped everything up in bubble wrap and stuffed the whole mess back into his skull.

Don really hoped someone had arrested that guy.

He turned his head a fraction on his pillow, trying to ignore the multitude of lines and tubes tugging at him. Everything felt decidedly blurry and just that one inch out of reach, but his head was still throbbing enough for him not to think about all of it too much. Thinking hurt. Although he really wanted to know what had landed him here. But everything was fuzzy and just that one inch...

_You thought that already_.

Two blurry figures appeared in his line of vision and Don blinked a couple of times to clear his vision. Familiar faces. Good.

"Hey Dad," he rasped.

The side of the mattress dipped slightly as his father sat down and Don tried to reach up with his hand, but it refused to work properly and simply flopped back down onto the bed. Warm fingers wrapped around his and then his father leaned over him and pressed a soft kiss onto his forehead.

"Welcome back, son."

There were tears in his father's eyes. _Must have been bad_.

Another set of fingers wrapped around his other hand and he tightened them to return the pressure, shifting his head a bit to look at his brother who leaned against the opposite side of the bed.

_Wow, must have been really bad_.

"Charlie?" he mumbled, shocked again at how hard it was to form clear words.

"Yeah, bro?"

"Cryin'."

"Am not." But he saw Charlie reach to up rub at his eyes.

A mixture of extreme giddiness and immeasurable sorrow started to roll over him and Don pressed his eyes shut to hold his own tears at bay. _Man, get a grip on yourself_.

Leaning into the warm palm that cupped the side of his face, he was again startled at the dimmed feeling that enveloped one side of his body. He felt the faint pressure of a thumb against his temple, drawing an almost hypnotic circle.

"It's okay, Donnie. Go back to sleep."

_Bubble wrap_, he thought and then, there was nothing else but darkness again.

XOXOX

Alan Eppes turned off the engine of his car after he'd parked in the driveway and looked to his right with a fond smile on his face. Charlie had practically fallen asleep the moment he'd been belted in on the passenger side. In the dim shine of the streetlight, his youngest son looked very much at peace in sleep, but the dark rings under his eyes spoke a different story.

He reached out and gently shook his knee. "Charlie?"

Charlie blinked and shifted slightly in his seat before he rose a hand to cover a huge yawn. He blinked sluggishly for a moment while figuring out his surroundings.

"Sorry," he whispered.

"Nothing to be sorry for. Let's go in, huh?"

Charlie scrubbed his palms over his face in an attempt to wake up further and suddenly stilled. "Damn."

"What?"

Charlie looked up, his hands still held a few inches in front of his face. "I'm supposed to hold a guest lecture at Berkeley on Wednesday. I totally forgot about that."

"You want to cancel?"

"I... I don't know."

Alan opened the door and waited for Charlie to get out on his side. "They would understand if you did, wouldn't they?"

They walked up the driveway to the front door and Alan searched his pockets for the key while Charlie leaned against the side of the door frame.

"I'm sure they would. It's just... it's been planned for so long."

They entered the house and Charlie steered towards the kitchen, getting himself a bottle of water. "They've been trying to persuade me for months and it somehow feels wrong to bow out now."

Alan followed into the kitchen and perused the contents of the fridge. "You don't have to bow out, right? Give them a call, explain the situation and maybe you can reschedule."

He deposited ham, cheese and mayonnaise on the counter and closed the door. "You want a sandwich too?"

"Yeah." Charlie wandered back out into the living-room and Alan busied himself with fixing a late night snack for both of them. When he came out ten minutes later, Charlie was curled up on the couch, fast asleep.

"Ah, well."

Alan shook his head slightly and returned the second sandwich to the kitchen to wrap it up for later consumption. Not today though, he thought with a tired smile.

He sat down in one of the chairs while he ate his own sandwich and watched Charlie sleep.

Alan felt like he had aged a decade or more over the past week and Charlie looked not that much better. He remembered that feeling, he'd had it before, in the week after Margaret had received her diagnosis and their whole lives were suddenly jumbled. But they'd come through that, not without wounds and scars that took their time to heal and fade, but reasonable whole. Life had continued and they had hung on.

He didn't know what the future would hold in store for them this time. Dr. Hamilton sounded very hopeful, but Alan knew that a lot of that had to be professional demeanor, trying to put the family at ease so they could function and support as best they could. He'd met enough doctors in his life to see through that. But he also knew and respected that it was necessary. If the doctors would reveal the whole picture with each and every possibility, as faint as some of them might be, it would be a whole lot harder to be confident.

With a sigh, he got up to put his empty plate into the dishwasher. Then, he tackled the task of getting Charlie into bed.

"Come on," he said after a minute of gentle shaking had only elicited soft moans. "You'll be much more comfortable in your bed."

Glazed brown eyes blinked at him for a moment, but finally Charlie moved. Alan doubted thought that he really woke up while he ushered him upstairs. He waited by the door while Charlie crawled under the covers and then went across the hall to do the same.

They needed their rest. Desperately.

XOXOX

Monday morning brought a cloudy sky and a dull headache behind Charlie's eyes. He turned around onto his other side and curled up into a ball.

"You not getting up?" his father asked from the doorway.

"Haven't decided yet," he muttered back, yawning into the sleeve of his shirt.

"I'll have breakfast ready in a minute. And I'll be heading off to the hospital in an hour or so."

"Uh-huh."

He listened to his father's steps down the stairs and closed his eyes. Man, he was tired. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this drained. Not even finals, on either side of the grading process, had ever left him with this much exhaustion. But those were situations he was prepared for while this current situation wasn't.

Charlie rubbed his temples and decided to get up after all. Life went on. And he had a call to make.

30 minutes later, after a shower and breakfast, he tackled the task of calling Carl Leibowitz, the head of the math department at Berkeley.

"What did they say?" Alan asked as he cleared the table.

"Carl will call back in a few minutes. They're not happy, but maybe we can reschedule before the finals."

"Well, that's at least something, isn't it?"

Leibowitz called back 15 minutes later with the solution. Instead of Tuesday through Thursday this week, Charlie would head north Monday through Wednesday the following week.

"I can't tell you how happy I am about that, Carl. Thank you."

"Don't worry, Charles. I'm glad we could work it out. Give my best to your family and we see each other next week, okay?"

Charlie ended the call and went upstairs to grab his bag and laptop. He'd head over to CalSci after visiting Don. It was time to catch up a little on his work, it felt like ages since he'd concentrated his mind on anything math related, even though it had only been a couple of days.

"You ready?" his father asked when he came back down.

Charlie shouldered his bag and released a breath. "As ready as I'll ever be."

XOXOX

"Hey."

Don turned his head carefully, trying not to aggravate the headache that was still gnawing at the insides of his skull. After a couple of blinks, Megan's face swam into focus.

"Hey."

He tried to shift into a more comfortable position, but gave up pretty fast. Hospital beds and comfort obviously couldn't match. Megan pulled one of the chairs nearer to the bed and sat down.

"How are you doing?"

Don thought about that for a moment. Not too bad, he decided. He had a faint recollection of yesterday and comparing that with today so far, he was decidedly less fuzzy even though the headache hadn't been as bad. No more bubble wrap, he thought and had to grin.

"Okay." He swallowed and winced at the raw pain the nasogastric tube caused in his throat.

"That looks very uncomfortable," Megan said and wrapped her fingers around his wrist.

"T'is." Don swallowed with another wince and concentrated on his next words. "Hope they... pull't later."

Man. It was really hard to form any kind of coherent sentence. The words were there, just on the tip of his tongue, but getting them out was a real struggle. Dr. Hamilton had said that it was going to become easier, but Don already felt impatient and a little bit annoyed with his body. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on Megan's touch but not really succeeding. Damn body.

"They've postponed the Albertson trial. I thought you'd want to know."

Albertson? Albertson? It took a moment before the right memory came up. Randolph Albertson. Big style extortionist. Had threatened to bomb several supermarkets. Don was supposed to appear in court to testify some time later this month.

"Could've sent you," he muttered. "Or David."

"Judge Branston wanted you. You were the leading agent on the case. It's not so bad though. Robin Brooks thinks she can link him to money laundering as well, so she's happy for a little more time to gather evidence."

Robin. Don's stomach did a lazy somersault before it knotted up tightly. He didn't really want to go there now.

"She asked about you. Word got around." Just as word had gotten around after he'd started seeing Robin a while ago. Office grapevine was a wonderful thing.

"Yeah."

The appearance of Dr. Hamilton and a small, stocky lady at his side spared Don from further delving into that particular topic.

"Ah, you have a visitor." Dr. Hamilton said with a smile.

Megan turned in her chair. "I was about to leave anyway."

She turned back around and squeezed his hand. "David and Colby will probably come by later today."

"Tell 'em to behave," Don said with a lop-sided grin.

"Ah, you tell them yourself." Megan smiled and leaned down to place a quick kiss onto his temple. "Get better soon, alright?"

Don watched her as she turned around to leave, slightly surprised at the unusual display of affection. Then he focused his attention to the remaining people in the room.

Dr. Hamilton and the woman stepped forward. "Don, this is Evelyn Landers. She's a therapist with our rehab department and will help you get back onto your feet. The sooner, the better, right?"

The blond woman leaned against the side of his bed and stretched her hand out. "Hi Don, nice too meet you."

Don tried to persuade his weak hand to move, but it wouldn't obey, so he lifted the other up instead to shake Eve's hand. The therapist seamlessly switched hands and grabbed his in a strong, warm handshake. Don liked her immediately.

"You can call me Eve, everyone does."

That was a good thing, Don thought. He was fairly sure he wouldn't be able to pronounce her full name properly yet. He shifted slightly onto his side while Eve settled herself in the vacant chair beside the bed.

"Dr. Hamilton here has told me pretty much everything about you that we know, but you don't know anything about me yet. I'm 39, married with two children and I've been working in health care for the last 20 years."

"You're a... PT?"

"Amongst other things." Phil Hamilton, who'd leaned onto the rail on the foot end of the bed, smiled broadly.

Eve threw the doctor an amused glance and continued. "I started out as nurse. Then that became not challenging enough, so I went to school and became a physical therapist. I worked downstairs in this very hospital for almost 15 years, until I had a bicycle accident. Broke my skull and three vertebrae."

Don's eyes widened at that revelation.

"The next 6 months, I spent on the receiving side of health care and once it was clear that I couldn't return into my old job, I decided to go back to school to become an occupational therapist on top of everything else."

"Wow."

"I know," Eve said. "It sounds awfully impressive, but I think it's not. So, what I do here half of the time is evaluating patients and working out therapy plans for them. The other half of my time, I help them getting back into the right tracks, here in the hospital and later at home."

"And she's very good at what she does," Hamilton said and stepped around the bed.

"Now, what we're going to do first is getting you a little more upright," Eve said.

She reached for the bed controls and raised the bed slowly from its near 45 degree angle to an almost 60 degree. Don closed his eyes, fighting the slight dizziness the change of position caused.

"How's that?" Eve asked after a moment.

He opened his eyes again and the dizziness had passed. "Okay."

"Good."

Eve got up and pushed the chair to the side. "I'm going to go fetch a couple of things. I'll be right back." She waited for Don to nod and left the room, meeting a nurse that was just about to enter right at the door.

"In the meantime," Dr. Hamilton said, "how about we get you rid off some of those nasty tubes. You don't really need them anymore, right?"

Don grinned at that and watched the nurse stepping nearer with a tray full of instruments and bandage material.

10 minutes later, being freed of both his nasogastric tube and Foley, he wasn't just as happy as before. Taking deep breaths while he tried to calm his revolting stomach, he saw Eve roll a wheelchair into the room.

"I'm going to leave you to Eve's capable hands now, okay?" Dr. Hamilton said and patted his shoulder. "I'll order some bland food if you're up to it later."

Hamilton left and Eve grinned at his slight frown while he eyed the wheelchair.

"I know, I never liked these either. But I'll doubt you're up to walking on your own just yet. We'll try that tomorrow or so."

She parked the chair beside the bed and leaned over the back with her hands propped onto the arm rests. "What we'll try to do today is get you out of your bed and in here. Then we'll make a little trip to the bathroom and after that, you'll probably be happy to get back into your bed. How does that sound?"

Don thought it sounded heavenly. It took a bit of work until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, but being upright had never felt better. Eve disconnected his IV and capped the port on the back of his hand. Then she slipped a pair of bootie socks onto his feet and helped him scoot forward until he could reach the floor.

"Now, I want you to put most of your weight on your stronger leg and let me do most of the work, okay?"

Don eyed her with just the slightest hint of skepticism. She was maybe 5 feet tall, 5' 2" tops.

"Don, trust me, okay? I've moved bigger hunks than you and I've never let anyone fall."

Eve was right. She did move his weight without any problems. And after their little excursion was over, he was more than happy to be flat on his back again.

XOXOX

Just as they walked down the hallway, Alan saw an unfamiliar woman exit Don's room. She turned around as they approach and smiled at them.

"Are you Don's family?"

"I'm his father, Alan Eppes. And this is my other son Charlie."

"I can see the family resemblance." They shook hands. "I'm Eve Landers, with the rehab department. I'm your son's therapist."

"Rehab?" Alan asked with surprise. "So soon already?"

"It's never too soon to start," Eve said with a smile. "Although this wasn't really rehab yet, just getting him to move around a little, a little wash-up, change of clothes, that sort of thing."

"Isn't that usually the nurses' job?" Charlie asked with a frown on his face.

"Well, I was a nurse once," Eve grinned. "I like to do this with all my patients the first time around. Our usual tests are time-consuming and tiring on the patients. This way, I can evaluate them while they receive a basic amount of care. And I see details the nursing staff don't."

"Like what?" Alan asked, curious now and a little bit uneasy.

"It's too early to speak about that yet, Mr. Eppes. Let's wait for the results of all the tests Dr. Hamilton ordered, okay?"

Alan could respect that. "How is he?"

She looked back at the door over her shoulder. "Tired. He's just dozing off again. It will take a while until he has his stamina back."

"Yeah, I guess it does." Alan looked over to Charlie and stretched his hand out to touch his back, noting the worried expression on his face.

"Well, we'll see each other around," Eve said. "If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask."

They shook hands again and watched the woman walk down the hallway. Alan noted that she dragged her left leg just a little bit. Wondering for a moment what kind of story might lie behind that limp, he reached for the door handle.

XOXOX

They both immediately stopped inside the room to take in the picture before them.

Don was curled up on his right side with his eyes closed, facing the door. Most of the medical equipment was still there, but pushed back into the corner by the window, only the IV in Don's hand remaining. Instead of a hospital gown, he was now clad in one of his old and threadbare UCSD shirts. The bulky dressing on his head had been exchanged for a smaller one as well. Released from all the tubes and wires, Don looked a lot closer to normal than he had the day before.

Charlie moved closer and lowered himself into the free chair. "He looks good."

Alan nodded with a fond smile on his face and stepped up beside Charlie. "He sure does."

"You talkin' 'bout me?" Don croaked.

The initial shock quickly transformed into laughter and Charlie reached over to gently pull Don's hand into his own. "Sorry. We didn't mean to... you know?"

Don pressed his head deeper into the pillow, his fingers weakly moving in Charlie's grasp. "S'okay. Maybe m'body will catch up with a'the praise 'round."

Alan perched down onto the side of the bed. "Still a headache?"

"Uh-huh." Don angled his head a bit and opened his eyes to mere slits. "You met Eve?"

"Yeah," Alan said and patted Don's leg. "Just as we arrived."

"Tough lady," Don muttered and turned his face back into the folds of the pillowcase.

They were both silent as Don gradually sank into an obviously much needed sleep. Charlie felt Don's fingers in his hand grow slack and he extended an experimental finger to draw a slow circle on Don's palm. The reaction was instantaneous. Don's hand clenched around his for a moment and Charlie could see a slow smile growing on his brother's face.

"Don't tease," he whispered almost inaudibly.

Alan scoffed at Charlie and rubbed Don's leg through the blanket while Charlie tried to hide his grin. They watched as Don finally succumbed to the need for rest his body demanded and Charlie couldn't stop grinning.

He couldn't help it. He was a little brother, teasing was his prerogative.

_TBC_

* * *

_**A/N: **For those of you who read this the first time around, this is how far we were then. From Chapter 5 onwards, the new stuff will follow. Don't know yet how fast I will be, but I can promise you it won't take 2 years again. ;-)_


End file.
